


There Are No Tampons in Dystopia

by leiascully



Category: The Proposal (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew is dispatched to the drug store for emergency supplies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are No Tampons in Dystopia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silveronthetree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silveronthetree/gifts).



It was easy to pretend to be irritated with Margaret. He _was_ irritated with Margaret. Andrew could practically hear his father: "You gave up a thriving empire of local businesses in a town that cares about you to buy tampons for your boss in the middle of the night?" To which Andrew's imaginary reply was "Yes", "Apparently", and "Fuck you too, pal", not necessarily in that order. 

Honestly, it wasn't buying tampons that bothered him. He wasn't that kind of guy. It was the fact that Margaret apparently didn't know what brand of tampons she used. Which meant that he was the clueless dude in the tampon aisle at midnight, on his cellphone, staring with wide eyes at the array of products. He at least wanted to be the dude who knew what he needed. The considerate boyfriend, potentially. The thoughtful husband. Not the guy who probably looked like he'd just discovered that women had periods. 

"Margaret," he said again. "What brand do you need?" 

"The box is blue," she said, clearly distracted by something. To be fair, she was working on the account of a Nobel Prize winner, so that was bound to be distracting.

"All these boxes are blue," he told her. 

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" she asked. "Just buy whatever you'd get for her."

"Great suggestion," he said. "I wish I'd thought of it. One thing, though: I don't have a girlfriend."

He could almost see the exasperated look on her face. "Well, Andrew, _imagine_ that you have a sexy, powerful, extremely busy girlfriend, and then buy the tampons that she would use."

"How many years has it been?" he asked. "You don't have any in your desk for emergencies?"

"No, I used them for the last emergency," Margaret said. "And also? None of your business. I didn't ask you to interrogate me, I asked you to buy me tampons."

"Asked, ordered," he muttered. "Semantics."

Margaret scoffed. "Chop chop. You want to write stories. Think of it as an exercise. Character building. What kind of tampons would Margaret Atwood write?"

"Do they have tampons in dystopias?" Andrew asked, patiently ironic.

"Bad example," Margaret said. He could hear her typing. "God, Andrew. Just get a multipack of whatever looks the best."

"By 'looks the best', I'm gonna assume you mean 'is most expensive'," he told her, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he picked up a box. "Scented or unscented?"

"Unscented."

"Paper or plastic applicators?" he asked.

"Plastic," she said. 

"Was that so difficult?" he asked, reaching for a different box. "Okay, I'm coming back with the most expensive box that fits that description."

"You get what you pay for," Margaret said.

"And yet you have me," Andrew reminded her. 

"You're right," Margaret said. "I should probably give you a raise. Maybe I would do that if you weren't so slow. Tell you what: if you're back at your desk in ten minutes, I'll guarantee you a raise and I'll have somebody read that manuscript that you're always talking about, the one that your 'friend' wrote."

"That would be very sweet if it were humanly possible," Andrew told her. "There's no way I can get back in ten minutes."

"Daylight's burning," Margaret said, and hung up.

"It's the middle of the night," Andrew said to the screen of his phone, and sighed. God, he hated her sometimes. No, that wasn't it. He hated working for her. Except that he didn't, even at moments like this, at the drugstore in the middle of the night, looking like a chump. He wouldn't trade this job for anything. 

The problem was that he liked Margaret. He wasn't in love with her, obviously - he didn't want to marry her or anything - but he liked her, more than he ought to like his boss. Especially a boss who dismissed his manuscript and sent him on strange errands at all hours of the day and night. She deserved most of her reputation, as much as someone could deserve the things that were said about her, but she got the job done. Andrew respected that. And she had some really nice suits. _Really_ nice suits. And what looked like a nice body under them, not that he'd ever thought about her in the shower or whatever. Much. 

He wasn't about to make a fool out of himself over her, but he liked her. He had A Thing for her. For about five seconds, he had imagined what it would be like to have a sexy, powerful girlfriend who happened to _be_ Margaret, and it wasn't a bad thought. 

Andrew shook his head, trying to banish the lingering image of Margaret smiling at him over her morning coffee. He had the feeling he was going to be seeing that one again. He picked up some beef jerky, a bottle of Midol, a Snickers for himself, and a bag of dark chocolate squares for Margaret. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
